


Intervals

by moon_custafer



Category: Homecoming (2018 TV series)
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Gen, Missing Scenes, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:09:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_custafer/pseuds/moon_custafer
Summary: A few missing-scene vignettes.
Kudos: 1





	Intervals

Heidi had feared, or hoped, that the return of her memory would mean she’d finally have some sense of who she really was— that was what had haunted her these past four years, wasn’t it? And now her pelicans had come home to roost? Turns out she’d been her happiest and most confident at the helm of a brainwashing factory. Thank God Carrasco didn’t ask any more of his questions as he drove her home, just hunched over the steering wheel as though his back hurt. After that mess at the Mirror Pond, he must have had all the information he needed to file his report.

She wondered if she would be arrested. If Carrasco hadn’t been authorized to arrest Colin, she supposed he wouldn’t stop her from leaving town either. But if she fled they might question her mother, or track down Walter and make him testify— if he could even remember anything.

* * *

Walter had been surprised his mother hadn’t said anything when he told her he was driving out to Yosemite again, but maybe after his stint in the Army she finally believed he could take care of himself. He could hardly remember anything from his service, he never told anyone that, just shrugged if folks asked him if he had any war stories. He knew it must have happened— there were little things he found himself doing, or knowing how to do. It was all a bit _Bourne Identity_ , really.

He took in the scenery as he drove the winding mountain road with his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel.

* * *

After filing his report, Carrasco left work early and put it down as a sick day. It wasn’t a lie, exactly— he’d fallen down a flight of stairs the day before, after all, and the bruises were really hurting. He drove home slowly, taking the route with the fewest bumps, and went for the medicine cabinet as soon as he got home. He couldn’t help checking the manufacturer’s name on the bottle before he opened it. Geist. Of course. He hesitated a moment before reminding himself that the corporation would not be serving their own interests by poisoning the average consumer, and began his usual battle with the child-proof cap. It was a good thing, he thought, that he hadn’t injured his arm or hand; this led him to ponder how people with arthritic fingers managed to open their pill-bottles, and by the time he got off that train of thought he was in his living room, where he selected a record, placed it on the turntable and cued it up.

Carrasco laid himself down on the couch with his head at the end nearest the door to the front hall. This was how he always oriented himself — it was the best position to appreciate the sound balance— and the cushions had moulded themselves to his back. _When people talk about ‘the pleasures of the flesh,’_ he thought, _they usually mean sex or alcohol. Sometimes food, I guess. But you can’t listen to music without ears. And then there are the little things, like a favourite shirt, or lying down on something comfortable and feeling yourself drift off to sleep._ Carrasco was not anyone’s idea of a sensualist, but he was a man aware of the little details.

Right now he was aware of the leaf in his shirt pocket; a detail that hadn’t made it into his report, because he hadn’t known where it fit in, and there had been enough other evidence to elevate the complaint. _You’ll remember_ , Shrier had said— but the leaf wasn’t ringing any bells. Had the words just been the meanderings of a damaged mind?

Carrasco took out the leaf and gazed at it, twirling it by the stem.


End file.
